


For I Was Nothing to Him

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Lost Love, M/M, ice man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hankie time. Get your tissues. Mycroft mourns Mycroft-style. Poetry is invoked. Folk music, too. The title is from a folksong variously known as "Lady Mary," "Palace Grand," and "Sad Song." The poem quote is from Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Elegy Before Death."</p><p>This one takes place in an AU where Mycroft does love Lestrade, but never acts on it or attempts what he considers logically impossible. Not that Sherlock can't spot pining and goldfish when he sees them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For I Was Nothing to Him

Mycroft knew Greg was dead before Sherlock crossed the threshold of his office. He knew for dozens of reasons, not least that Sherlock was there himself, with no business pending, asking Anthea politely if he could see his brother—asking rather than breaking in, popping out of the coat closet, texting, or any of a dozen other more likely options. He knew because Sherlock’s voice was quiet and respectful…

Anthea rang the comm connection. Mycroft said, “Let him in,” before she could even ask.

By then Mycroft knew. Sherlock knew he knew. That left little to say. The door opened. Sherlock stepped in, oddly raw and human, even the Belstaff seeming spent and weary.

“How?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Knife. White supremacists setting bombs in the community center of a Mosque in the East End.”

Mycroft nodded. He felt like a pebble dropped into an abyss, waiting to land. It was horrible, yet oddly peaceful. The worst had happened.

Like Jesus, he wanted to say merely, “It is finished.”

“His next of kin have been told?”

Sherlock’s silence shouted, “You are his next of kin.”

Mycroft shrugged. He didn’t point out that some connections are unstated, unacted on, uncelebrated…as silent as Sherlock’s silent shout. “He’ll have left a will. Instructions. I believe he used Chatterjee and Bahram. If the Met doesn’t have a record, be sure to pass it on.”

“And if they want to know why you know what it isn’t your business to know?”

“They won’t know. They won’t ask. You will offer the information. You were his friend. You are Sherlock Holmes. No more explanation will be needed. No one will even think to ask if the information came from me. I was nothing to DI Lestrade. The brother of a friend.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t even claim him as a colleague?”

“Before, it would have put him in danger for a sentiment he neither shared nor knew of. Now, it would at the least give away minor state secrets. Our MO as agents.”

He hadn’t moved from his seat since he’d first heard Sherlock come into the outer office. He did rise, now, and came around the desk in the gracious, professional manner of a bureaucrat ushering a colleague from the room. One hand lightly touched Sherlock’s arm, behind the elbow. “There will be people who need you. John. Perhaps his team. Take care of the wounded. The dead are in no rush.”

Sherlock stepped away from the light touch. “You should have tried, you know.”

“Three hours ago you would have sworn otherwise—emphasis on the word ‘sworn.’”

His brother looked away, guilt and anger blending in shocked eyes. “Since when have you ever listened to me?”

Mycroft didn’t answer; it was a rhetorical question in any case. He and Sherlock were closer than most people realized, most people seeing only the negatives, not the silent, binding positives. Instead of answering, he said, softly, “My condolences for your loss, brother. I am…sorry. He was a good man.”

Shelock frowned, that signature odd horizontal crease forming at the top of bridge of his nose. After a moment he said, quietly, “Likewise.”

“I have lost nothing, brother-mine. Nothing that was ever mine to hope for…much less claim as my own. Go. People are waiting, and as much of a prat as you may be, your absence will still do more harm than your presence ever could. They know you loved him. They’ll need you there to mourn him.”

Names and oaths and curses; tears and regrets and comfort; reproaches and confessions and forgiveness then passed between them, silently. Sherlock’s head ducked. “Call me, later,” he said. “Come over to Baker Street. I’d like the company.”

It was a lie—one of the rare, splendid lies Sherlock so seldom would ever even think to consider, much less offer. Mycroft sighed, and smiled a too-weak smile.

“You’re a good man,” he said, without accepting the invitation. “He was proud of you.”

He closed the door behind his brother and walked silently across the room. He sat at his desk. He flicked the comm.

“Anthea, please order a wreath for Detective Inspector Lestrade’s funeral. Something tasteful. Donations to the usual police charities. You know what to do. You’re good at that.”

“Yes, sir. Usual procedure with the record of working with him? Classified information, ten-year release date before making accessible?”

“Maybe longer. Release upon my death. There aren’t many who’ve worked with me. Each who has is another data point for enemy analysis.”

“Very good, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I know you liked him.”

“He was an excellent man and a superb agent. He will be…missed.”

“Condolences, sir.”

“Enough. I was a professional colleague. We worked together. Other than that, I was nothing to him.”

He had lost nothing that was his to hope for or claim, he thought again. Nothing would change. The world would continue. Mycroft would live.

He was fine, just fine.

Then Mary, of all people—Mary Watson—emailed him a single verse of a poem, and he wept.

 

Oh, there will pass with your great passing

Little of beauty not your own,

— Only the light from common water,

Only the grace from simple stone!

 

 

                                                                                                                                                


End file.
